


Dropped

by Silver33650



Series: Tarnished Ghosts and Polished Shadows [10]
Category: Fortnite (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Forced Defection, Gen, Headcanon, Multiple POV Switches, Swearing, The Device, no points for guessing who dies, the bad guys win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver33650/pseuds/Silver33650
Summary: Of a device, and the downfall of the mastermind who devised it.
Series: Tarnished Ghosts and Polished Shadows [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923190
Kudos: 7





	Dropped

**Author's Note:**

> don't ask how many times I watched my replay video of the device for this

Jonesy had a thousand- nay, a million- nay, several millions- of memories of getting on the battle bus, but he wasn't sure how many of them were his. The most definite memories in his mind were of his normal life, or whatever passed for normal on the island: he woke up, went for a walk, waved to people he saw, got lunch, played games with Peely, went to sleep. But then, and sometimes when he daydreamed, he remembered a very different sort of island, one dominated by rules and conflict, repeating yet always unique. 

The memories always started the same way: he would find himself on the little island off the shore of the bigger island where The Game was played. "Game" was the best way he could think of to describe it. He waited in line to get on the Battle Bus and took a seat onboard, usually in the back, and as far away from anyone who had the same face as him, because that was common. Disturbingly common. He tapped his feet to the beat of the music playing, and looked out the window to gauge when to drop out of the bus. 

Sometimes he got off as soon as he could, landing in a named location amid a frenzy of other players grabbing loot and opening chests and whacking each other with their harvesting tools. Sometimes he landed away from everyone else, in a quiet part on the edge of the map, so far from the bus route that he had to deploy his glider early and still had a bit to run before he reached his intended destination. And then there were the days where he forgot to leave the bus entirely, and found himself staring into the ocean for a few moments before he realized he'd been forcibly kicked off. 

But no matter where he landed, survival was a challenge. There were the other players, usually with better equipment, whose weapons shone with a purple or orange tint while he was stuck with a green one, or perhaps a gun lacking any aura entirely. Even his shots were prone to going wide, while everyone else seemed to have some sort of targeting system that prevented them from ever missing. Either that, or he was a magnet for bullets. Although it wasn't just bullets; there were grenades to worry about, and rockets, and falling the wrong way down a cliff... to say nothing of the storm itself, always waiting, sapping away the life from anyone who didn't pay enough attention to the sirens heralding its approach at regular intervals. 

Jonesy would've written it all off as his imagination, except for a few things. One, the fact that the battle bus itself definitely existed. He saw it while he was awake sometimes, flying through the sky at a brisk pace. He even remembered, a long time ago, one that had crashed. 

Two, that the storm definitely existed. He could see it sometimes, off in the distance over the ocean. The strange purple clouds and lightning, threatening but never coming ashore. 

Three, that there were reboot vans in most of the population centers, which nobody knew how to work except in the circumstances of the Game itself. 

And lastly, there were the... Events. 

Events were strange times. The Game was different in those times, played always in teams and then suddenly, not at all, as the island was changed in some significant way that impacted his normal life and was never undone. These times stood out to him more than any other memory he had. A rocket launching from a villain's lair. A cube exploding in a blaze of white, transporting them to a strange realm where a butterfly saw them out. An ice king casting a wall of snow. A metal disc sealing away six forgotten items. A monster and a mech fighting to the death. And most recently, seven rockets escorting a meteor to bring about the end of the world. 

It was nice to have some peace and quiet after that, but as was often the case on the island, things were Happening again. Around the Agency now occupying the center of the map were five hatches, silent at first but then spouting bubbles. Starting in small bursts but later spurting in jets after the hatches suddenly opened. Then the countdown appeared in the sky, and Jonesy knew it was only a matter of time. 

Doomsday, he heard it called. Something to do with Midas, the boss lurking in the Agency, and his strange device. Everybody feared the worst, but Jonesy knew better than to trust rumors on the island at this point. That didn't stop him from worrying, however. The island was due for a change, and it wasn't always for the better. 

* * *

Midas wakes on the day he activates the device far too early. But he's too wired to go back to sleep, his body laced with adrenaline. He sheds his crumpled clothes and dons his best. Slides the gold over his skin like it's armor. Just like every other day, except today he needs it the most. 

He moves through the Agency like a razor, slinging sharpened glances at everyone he passes. The henchmen are in a frenzy, and he's the knife cutting through the tension.

It isn't until he reaches his office that his shoulders start to slump, that the exhaustion creeps up on him. He goes to the suit in its case, again. Stares through the glass, again. Sees her face, again. Sighs. Scoffs. But this time, he turns around. And of course she isn't there. Just the henchmen, waiting with the cart. 

He draws the key from his pocket and opens the case. _Today's the day, Cyclo._ He would prefer to carry it himself, but it's hardly safe to do that. He waits for the henchmen to load it onto the cart, trying not to tap his foot impatiently, not to glance back at his desk where the countdown still runs. 

_00:00:30:00... 00:00:29:55... 00:00:29:50..._

* * *

During his lunch hour, Jonesy found himself waiting for the bus, staring toward the Agency in the center of the island. One last round of spy games, with a paltry thirty minutes remaining on the countdown. So it was time. 

The bus' path was rocky flying through the storm, buffeted by the wind and rain. Below, the Agency was waiting, in the exact center of the eye. _00:00:29:00... 00:00:28:55... 00:00:28:50..._

Jonesy dropped on the hill to the south and took a seat. He'd drawn well for tech, but he wasn't interested in fighting. He waited, peacefully, and wondered how bad this would be. 

* * *

Things are running smoothly in the command room, even with how long it takes to verify everything. Check that everyone is in position, that every cable and plug has been inspected, that all the wires are connected and the fastened securely. Midas surveys the room, running through his checklist, trying to think of anything left undone, leery of how the loop has been impacting his mind. But no, he now feels perfectly lucid, perfectly focused, perfectly centered. Everything will go as planned. 

He glances at the countdown. _00:00:05:00... 00:00:04:55..._

"Gentlemen." One word, barely raising his voice, and yet everyone turns his way. It's just him and the henchmen, so it's to be expected, but it still sparks some confidence in him, to know that he can still command a room like this. He'd nearly forgotten, with how empty the hideout has become. He's even sent Maya away, after sliding one last envelope of documents into her hand. _If anything goes wrong..._

He shoves that thought away as he focuses his gaze on Cyclo. Nothing will go wrong. 

He makes a speech, thanking them for their service, declaring this their finest hour, reminding them that today they make history. He keeps his eyes on the suit, on the cables connecting everything, instead of watching the audience; not that it matters, since they're all wearing helmets anyway. There is cheering as they go to finish the preparations. 

Midas takes his seat at the back of the room and picks up the radio. Calls everyone for final checks. Watches the countdown finally reach zero. Waits as each of the ancillary spires rises out of the hatches. Hovers his hand over the button while the henchmen in the room watch. Gives a final glare to the screens showing the ominous clouds surrounding the Agency.

_Defy the storm._

"Showtime," he announces, then slams his hand down. 

* * *

John sits in his office drinking from his mug, watching the screen. They only have one satellite capable of picking up anything on the island, and even then, the image is fuzzy. But it's there. He glances at Midas' file, hopes the man hasn't decided to go off the rails and sticks to the plan. 

The device appears. John sets down his mug and rubs his hands together, ending with a clap. _Showtime._ So far, so good. He reaches for his mug, spotting people running in the hallway. Weird, he thinks, but then his phone starts ringing. He takes his time answering while directing his attention back on the screen. Listens to the panicked voice on the other end. Eyes widening as they keep talking. He bolts out of the room. 

* * *

Jonesy hadn't actually expected Midas to destroy the Agency, but that was exactly what happened after the spires rose from the hatches, so that the device itself could emerge from the debris. It shot a ball of energy into the air, creating a faint web in the sky as beams struck each of the other spires. The beams pushed outward, at the wall of the storm, which began to solidify on impact. Jonesy felt his feet leave the ground as the device pulsed. It was using a lot of energy. A _lot_. So much, that everything went white for a moment-

* * *

And he was somewhere else entirely. An office, staring at a desk with folders and a computer on it. Through the window, he could spot a man pacing in the hallway. 

But something was familiar in the hunch of his shoulders, in the fall of his hair, in the line of his jaw. Jonesy stepped closer to the window, reached for the blinds-

* * *

Midas hits the screen. He'd seen it. Jonesy's- no, John's office, just as he remembered it when he concentrated. But already it's fading, the screen receding into static. _Damn it._ He checks the readings, hoping to spot some easy explanation for the problem, but they're all blank as the lights go out in the command room and leave them all in darkness. The backup lights come on quickly, but they're so dim they're nearly useless. On the screens, the device has completely lost power, leaving only a faint ring of light around its base. _Fine._ _We'll do this the hard way._

He's already running when the report comes over the radio- _Boss, the storm-_

"Never mind that. Adjust Cyclo's destination coordinates by..." He does a quick calculation, trying to place it nearer to the door- why was John outside his office now, of all times?- then gives a figure. He picks up the pace. 

* * *

Jonesy's hopes fell. Well, it had been working. But then the device had stammered, sparked, and gone out. Now he could barely see it. 

The storm roared, clouds swirling, lightning flashing. Watching. Waiting. As if it was just toying with the Agency, knowing it could take all the time it wanted to destroy it. 

So that was it, then, Jonesy thought. The storm won. 

The device sputtered, flickering. Then it roared back to life with a vengeance, as the wind lifted him up off the ground. 

* * *

Midas is in the breaker room, flipping switches, drawing power wherever he can. From Slurpy Swamp. From Holly Hedges. From Dirty Docks. He'll fry the power grid of the entire island if he has to; they'll have plenty of time to fix it when this works. Every few steps he finds himself weightless, flung against the walls and servers. It's very clear to him that _something_ \- the storm? the loop? the island itself?- does not want him to do this. But he will. 

He hesitates at the last switch. Then he flips it, the one labeled Steamy Stacks, and runs back to the command room. Then changes his mind and races up the stairs to the ground floor of the Agency. Taking the steps two at a time. Then three. 

* * *

On top of the hill overlooking the south side of the Agency, Chaos Agent sat and watched, grounded while the rest of the island was weightless. It sighed. _You should not have done that, little ghost._

* * *

Jonesy soared over the device, watching with wide eyes as it charged up again, lighting all the spires and flinging their beams outward, against the wall of the storm. He'd never seen it appear so solid, and yet it still looked so nebulous, bouncing back against the beams; it would not go quietly. 

But it did go.

The storm was pushed back. He could see all the way to the ocean, even some of the islands in the distance, as gravity came back into play. He floated to the ground and landed lightly on the shore of the lake, his pickaxe appearing in his hands shortly after he touched the ground. 

The sky was clear. Rainbows hovered in the air. Butterflies floated through the grass. 

Jonesy took out his gun, swapped between weapons. He heard shots from the Agency; the spy game was still on. Though he wasn't sure what the point was, now. The storm was gone. They could play as long as they wanted...

* * *

Midas stands amid the ruins of his Agency and takes in the sight of the clear sky for so long that his eyes start to burn. There's cheering over the radio, then more as he thanks them and promises bonuses and raises. He gives the command to lower the device, and the spire starts sinking beside him as he starts to laugh. He's dreamed of getting this far for so long-

He flinches against the wall as lightning strikes the device. A spiderweb of cracks forms over the glass as it passes him. A chill runs down his spine. _What was that?_ asks the radio, but he's already dashing back down the stairs to the command room. Every few steps his mind goes blank, forcing him to grab the handrail. Eventually he starts jumping down entire flights to avoid stumbling. He turns the handle to leave the stairwell, yanks open the door-

_I don't think so._

Standing in front of Midas is Chaos Agent, its fingers pressed together in that pose he knows so well. Gone is the Agency; they're staring at each other across a blank, white space. Midas glares. "Out of the way."

 _You've failed,_ it tells him. _E_ _ven now, the storm rises in defiance of your little stunt, to have its revenge. Your friends are trying to stop it, but..._ Laughter. _You do know how to swim, yes?_

He does _not_ have time for this. "Whatever it is, I'll fix it."

 _So resistant. Admirable, but anticipated._ It pulls a familiar object from behind its back, spinning it on one finger. _In case you change your mind, I've sent someone who's willing to talk things through._

The man across the lake. "I'll shoot him before he has the chance." It was a mistake not to do that before. 

The cube disappears in a poof of purple runes. Chaos Agent sighs. _Don't say no to my envoy._

Midas blinks, and the hallway appears again. He runs to the command room, to the screen where the video feed is waiting and Cyclo is not. 

* * *

Jonesy heard it in his ears first: static, ringing. The gun dissipated in his hand for a moment; for a moment, his thoughts were completely scrambled; all the colors around him looked wrong. He forgot about the spy game, about how to build. Forgot the map of the island, as if he was supposed to be somewhere else instead. Somewhere like...

* * *

Back in the office, where papers were flying. The files were still on the desk, but now the screen showed static, and he could hear voices from the hallway. 

Jonesy looked at the pictures on the walls, and was surprised to see his own face. Here, of all places? Wherever it was. He looked back at the desk, at the coffee cup. Ghost. Wait, Ghost?

"It's not just a storm?"

The voice in the hallway was incredulous. It mentioned the loop. Jonesy frowned; he remembered a loop. From a tape, long ago-

* * *

Midas slaps the screen. He'd hoped this wouldn't be this difficult, but-

"Boss?"

He jerks his head up, notices everyone is watching the screens- oh. His knees buckle. _Oh._

Water. A towering wall of it, surrounding the Agency. Sharks swim amid the debris of parts of the island that had been claimed by the flood. Even his yacht teeters where it floats at the top of the wall, splashing droplets over the edge.

His mind kicks into overdrive, trying to figure out a way to stop that thing. There has to be something- 

There's a swish of sparks as Cyclo disappears again. 

Midas' breath catches as jolts back to his feet and checks the screen. Again the office appears; this time it's the door, where he can spot John's wall to the side. He picks up the radio. Waits. 

* * *

"And that worked?"

Jonesy's mind was still reeling with the sight of the flood wall; it took him a moment to realize he was back in the strange office where his face adorned the walls. 

The door opened, and a man in a black suit entered, chatting on the phone. His tone was much calmer than it had been earlier; he seemed relieved. Then he looked up, spotted Jonesy, and froze. 

And Jonesy froze too, because _they had the same face._

"How are you even-" The man paused, looked down, tried to collect his thoughts. "Wait. Wait wait wait. Can you... Can you HEAR me?"

* * *

"Yes," Midas shouts into the radio, already starting to spout static, "I can-"

* * *

The office dissolved; Jonesy felt like he was falling through the blank, white space that followed. He thought he heard another voice, but it was too high-pitched, too twisted, too warped; the sounds lengthened and stretched until they collapsed in on themselves and became nonsense echoing in his brain as he found himself back on the bus, now traveling over an ocean with the familiar ominous lighting of the storm. And yet, ahead was a pit where the ruins of the Agency sat, surrounded by cliffs built of water. 

Jonesy rubbed his eyes; something about that voice had sounded familiar... but it was already waning, and the bus gave an impatient honk to encourage everyone to jump off.

* * *

"John? John? What's happening? I thought I heard-"

The voice on the line finally breaks John out of his shock. He raises the phone back to his ear. "You won't believe what just happened."

* * *

Jonesy almost didn't get off the bus. But he was so, so curious. He ran right up to the wall of the water, staring at the fish swimming there. He stepped into it and was immediately forced to swim. But only for a moment, as the current pushed him right back out. 

That was new. 

He went back in and tried to swim against it. It was hard. And it still hurt like the storm, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. But the current was too strong, pushing him up and away, until it shot him out and he landed hard back in the zone. 

He stood up and dusted himself off. Eyed the wall of water. Maybe it would be back to normal after going back to the lobby, he thought. He hoped. 

But it wasn't. Every time he got on the bus, it was waiting, casting its watery shadow over everything and washing it all away as it advanced. Even in his normal life, it was there, hovering on the horizon, visible for everyone to see. 

The rumors had been right. Midas had brought doomsday after all. 

* * *

" _FUCK_."

Midas threw the radio so hard the cord snapped, and it went flying across the room. He slammed his fist against the console, too enraged to notice it start to turn to gold. It had worked. _It had worked._ But not long enough. He looked at the suit, hopeful, but it was just as broken as the device itself. _Fuck_. Fuck the storm, fuck this island, fuck the loop, fuck the battle bus just for good measure, fuck the math he'd probably fucked up-

He heard the door open behind him, the clink of metal against the floor. The henchmen were instantly on alert, all drawing their weapons to fend off whatever threat had arrived. 

_Don't say no to my envoy._ Who was now here, clearly. Not that he had any choice. Everyone would know who to blame for this, and there was no time to fix it. There was only one person he could think of who could help them at this point, and she had made her allegiance clear. 

"There's no need for violence." His voice sliced through the tension in the room. He folded his hands behind his back, not bothering to turn around. "I surrender."

The cuffs went around his waiting hands. 

* * *

The most humiliating part for Midas was seeing Chaos Agent lounging in his own office. Sitting in _his_ chair at _his_ desk behind _his_ countdown with its string of zeroes. Spinning one of its cubes as the Shadow henchmen forced him into the seat across from it. He was a bit surprised that they removed his handcuffs. The cube vanished from Chaos Agent's hand as it snapped its fingers, and the phonograph started up as it sat up straight. It waved its arms to the beat. _Oh, how the turntables._

Midas said nothing. Chaos Agent raised its fist to its mask and let out some sludge into it. Was that supposed to be a facsimile of a cough? _You're supposed to laugh,_ it said, leaning over the desk.

Not a chance. "You'll have to forgive my poor mood."

 _That simply will not do,_ it tutted. _I know what will help._ It slid out of his chair and under the desk, reforming on the other side, far too close for Midas' comfort. But before he could even flinch, it yanked him out of his seat by his tie and clenched it in its fist. Ink slid across his clothes, mending any damage as it went. Midas stayed still and tried not to breathe in the fumes, but he got lightheaded anyway. When it was done, it stepped back, slightly. _Much better. A masterpiece. You always did look better in black._ It yanked him to the side of the chair and spun him around to face the mirror that had appeared behind them. _Have a look._

His black clothes were just as fine as his Ghost attire, but they felt too smooth against his skin, with a strange velvet texture that irritated him if he moved too much. Chaos Agent hovered over his shoulder. _See, we match!_

"Not yet," he said, turning around and grabbing its mask. The gold slid across the metal, but did nothing to cover its blank white eyes. "Now we match," he said, shoving it away from him. 

It laughed, a sound like spilled ink. _You are so entertaining, little ghost. We've always matched._ It placed its hands on his shoulders and regarded him like a fascinating new toy. _Should we tell Skye about how she's the last man standing now? No... you probably want to see your old friends more, yes? Like that cat you neglected? Or that munitions expert you ignored? Or perhaps that rat you thought you owned?_

Midas scowled through the list, but he had to bite back a retort to that last one especially. "There's only one person I want to see."

It patted his shoulder. _All in good time, little ghost. We still have a bit before that flood wall breaks, and I crave entertainment. Fortunately, you've always delivered on that front. It would be a shame for you to miss out on defending what's left of your Agency from the result of your hard work, wouldn't it?_

His heart sank. "No."

_Oh yes. Enjoy your last bit of fun, little ghost._

* * *

They were easier to eliminate than ever, at first. Curious, they roamed the ruins without their usual alertness and made for easy targets. Then they caught on, and attacked more viciously than ever. For some of them, it felt personal. Whether because of the flood or because he was a traitor was difficult to gauge, but he felt the impact of their rage all the same. The taste of salt never left his mouth. It was always there, a reminder of the flood that was always coming, always going, until finally, it began to break.

On that morning, the henchmen were gathered at the back of the building in orderly rows. Midas moved to join them, confused that he hadn't received any sort of memo about a meeting. A helicopter landed, and a figure stepped out. He picked up his pace, breaking out into a run until he reached the front of the crowd. 

It was Jules. 

She looked much the same as he remembered her. The same twin braids, the same goggles, the same torn jeans. But there was the Shadow emblem on her shirt, a reminder of how he'd treated her and pushed her away. And how it had led to this. 

"Jules," he called, with all the henchmen behind him. Across the broken marble behind the ruined Agency, the eyes of the siblings met, for the first time in months. 

She regarded him with a grimace, as if she was looking at a particularly disgusting heap of garbage. But she didn't say anything. 

"I can help you now," he said. He could see it: partners again, working on a new solution to the problem of the storm. Getting ice cream after long hours hunched over desks and pitching ideas to each other. But she wouldn't even greet him. "We can make things right," he tried. His hands were shaking around his golden gun. He could never use it on her, but he'd turn it against the henchmen in a heartbeat. If only she'd say yes. "Together. Again."

She'd heard enough. She nodded at the henchman who'd flown her in, then jerked her head toward him. The henchman walked toward Midas. He stepped backward, but there were henchmen behind him too. They took his gun away and lifted him, carrying him toward the shore. A heave, and he splashed into the lake, gasping for air. The henchmen were already heading back to Jules, who was pointing at sections of the Agency and giving out commands. 

"Jules," he called, but it was no use. It was over. He paddled to the other shore, looked up the path through the cliffs, and sighed. Time to start climbing. 

He did not get very far. 

* * *

It was lonely on the water. Lonely, and boring. 

He stared at the horizon, at the islands in the distance. He didn't dare look behind him, at the island he'd tried to save. Perhaps somewhere out there was a place that would take him in. Find a radio- his communicator was waterlogged, still blinking but unable to find a signal- reach out to anyone, bribe them with anything and everything... but no. It was over. 

A blot appeared on the surface of the ocean. Like an oil spill, it slicked its way toward him until the familiar form of Chaos Agent was sitting on the raft with him. It snapped its fingers, and suddenly he was in his normal attire again. He supposed that was one way to fire him. He had nothing to say to it, so he stayed silent, waiting for the gloating to begin. He could already sense its glee. 

_Every person, animal, and entity not otherwise specified on this island hates you._

He knew this. It was a miracle he'd been able to build a raft as the flood waters rose, avoiding the bullets and grenades aimed at him as he'd fled across the island. He was adrift because it was safer than staying on land, or what constituted as land since the flood. 

_I will miss our games. You have been so fun to play with. But it's more fun to control the whole board rather than just half, and I've no use for a king who puts himself in checkmate._

That was hardly fair, Midas thought bitterly. This thing had been rigging his whole life. "Is that all I am to you? Another piece in your games?"

It laughed. _You know, I've always enjoyed that rule of yours. "Don't ask questions you don't want an answer to." To a novice, it seems to stress silence. But upon closer inspection, it is a lesson in strategy. I consider it your best work._

He scoffed. "Thank you."

It tilted its head. _I have not received gratitude before, even in jest. This is an odd feeling. Joy at having caused joy? No wonder it works so well on you pawns._

"I'm glad I could do one thing right."

 _Hardly. I hate this feeling. I hate you._ It stood, already dissolving. _Best keep an eye out for monsters, yes? Chomp chomp, little ghost._ And it was gone. 

He stared at the empty space for a moment, then his head sank. He rested his elbows on his knees, waiting, trying not to think of the past but unable to conjure thoughts of anything else. But the memories were only of the loop, not all the things that had come before it. 

* * *

The sound was soft, at first. It nearly blended in with the gentle lapping of the waves against the raft. 

Then it got louder. He turned around. 

_Chomp chomp, little ghost._

Midas was vaguely aware that he had died on the island before. In the halls of the Agency, when he'd been overwhelmed or tricked. Those futures that had dissipated as the loop worked its strangeness across the island. But he'd still had access to the hideout then, and to his office; he did not have that now. 

_Not like this._ He started paddling, but he knew it was no use. The shark caught up so quickly; he couldn't take his eyes off it as it approached. It opened its jaws wide. 

* * *

John flipped on the lights in Midas' old office. It was empty; nobody had felt it appropriate to take it, thinking he would make it back once the plan was completed. The current president had taken a room elsewhere in the building. But with the way things stood now, John had a feeling that wouldn't last much longer. 

John sat down at Midas' desk and sank his head into his arms. It had been a long, long day. Everything had gone so wrong. He'd have to make sure to give Janice a bonus for her hard work, schedule meetings to discuss next steps, start reviewing personnel files to decide who they'd have to send in next. It wasn't a job he wanted, but nobody else was going to do it. 

At least one thing had gone right today. Although he wasn't sure how much it mattered now, after he'd seen the latest images from the loop. _What the hell are you thinking, Midas?_ John stared at the picture of the two of them from his wedding and sighed. Even with all the dirt in Midas' file, John still held on to some last bit of faith in him. This was the same man who still used his sister's machine after it literally poked his eye out. John still remembered how excited Jules had been when it was finished, how she named it like every other machine she'd built. How excited, and yet, how uneasy. Not that Midas had noticed. 

John was so caught up in reminiscing that he almost didn't realize something was missing: the purple stress cube wasn't on Midas' desk. Usually it sat next to the picture frame, but now it was gone, leaving a small clear square amid the dust. John checked every drawer, including the ones that he wasn't supposed to have the keys for but had made illicit copies of anyway. Nothing. Not under the desk or chair. Not anywhere on the floor. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, then looked back at the picture on the desk. Frowned. Grabbed it, removed the back, and found a card waiting there. 

_Don't you want to come see how your friend is doing? I'll be waiting._

No signature was needed. He shut his eyes. John really, really did not want to do that, but maybe he had no choice. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest: I shot Shadow-faction Midas eight times in the face with a purple heavy AR in the match immediately following the event, and it was very satisfying.


End file.
